


the advantage of withholding your honesty

by strangetowns



Series: stupid words i haven't said [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anxiety, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6505462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetowns/pseuds/strangetowns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On your thirteenth birthday, you stayed up all night waiting for a name on your wrist that never came.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cynical_optimist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical_optimist/gifts).



> Alternatively: a story about the ways a soulmate system can fail, and the ways you can find love anyway.
> 
> Happy birthday, Lydia!! I'm sorry I wrote something this sad for your birthday and I'm also sorry I sort of went completely off prompt on you and I'm also really really sorry I totally failed at making this a one shot, but I hope you enjoy this anyway. <3
> 
> A few disclaimers: I don't do sports at all so apologies for any inaccuracies on that front. We're going to chalk any canon inaccuracies to the fact that this is an AU and leave it at that.
> 
> Much thanks to my betas [niuniujiaojiao](http://niuniujiaojiao.tumblr.com/) and [rumpelsnorcack](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpelsnorcack/pseuds/rumpelsnorcack). I couldn't have done this without your support. Title is pulled from Royal Canoe's “[Exodus of the Year](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vTZ4DIB-LEY)”.

**I.**

On your thirteenth birthday, you stayed up all night waiting for a name on your wrist that never came.

Your mother had told you not to at dinner the evening before – “Jack, you need your rest, you know” – but then she’d ruffled your hair and smiled, and you’d figured that was as good a sign as any that this time it would be okay not to listen. Not that being told you need your rest has ever really made much of a difference before.

But you didn’t want to make too much of a scene, so you turned off all your lights at bedtime and lay on your back, eyes closed and pulse clattering in your veins, until your clock, glowing green numbers in the dark, hit midnight. Carefully, you swallowed down your excitement – _I’m a teenager now?_ – and reached under your pillow for your flashlight. With your thumb, you switched it on, squinting against the sudden and jarring light, and aimed it at the inside of your wrist. You blinked away the light, and stared.

It was midnight, you had just turned thirteen, and the skin of your arm was as smooth and blank as it’d been when you’d first crawled into bed.

 _A mistake_ , was your first thought. Or weird timing. You’d been born at three in the morning. Maybe these things really did take thirteen years.

You closed your eyes – sleep was futile because your thoughts were too loud, as they always were, but at least you could pretend that you tried – and focused on your breathing. In, out, regular like a tide. If you exhaled slowly enough, you could almost delude yourself into thinking your heart didn’t want to burst in your ribcage.

Seconds melted fluidly into minutes, and hours. You opened your eyes. The clock read 3:12.

Flashlight at the ready, squinting against the blindness. Nothing on your arm.

Panic seized your lungs, familiar as it was sudden. People got the names of their soulmates on their wrists when they turned thirteen. That was just the way things were, the knowledge of it so normal it was almost innate. You’d never heard of someone who didn’t have a name, and though you’d heard your fair share of horror stories, people with the names of the long-dead or the names of people they went their whole life without meeting, none of those stories had ever been about _absence_.

Something had gone wrong, you knew. What had you done wrong? If you’d fallen asleep, maybe it would be different. Maybe you should have listened to your mother. Maybe it was still too early, maybe it was like a watched pot and you had to put it out of your mind until months or years later, and then when you glanced back at your arm, you’d find there’d be something there after all.

Or maybe you didn’t have a soulmate. Maybe you just weren’t normal.

You thought of nothing else for the entire night.

When the morning came, blinking heavy eyelids against the pale sun, you carefully clasped your watch onto your arm. You hadn’t worn it in years, silver and clunky and not practical for playing hockey, but its band was wide enough to cover the part of your wrist that might have a name, and that was all that really mattered.

You went down to your breakfast, and neither your mother nor your father commented on the circles under your eyes, or your covered wrist.

“Can I buy a cuff after practice today?” you said.

“Of course,” your mother said, smiling softly, understanding in her eyes.

The thing is, she would never understand, and that was something you’d do anything in your power to ensure.

After breakfast, your father took you aside and laid a solid hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said, quietly, seriously. “Finding out who your soulmate isn’t a comfortable thing. That’s fine.”

“I know,” you lied, and smiled.

-

For the most part, you go through life managing to avoid the questions that the press and everyone else asks you about the cuff on your arm. They come, of course, as they must. Wearing a cuff is not exactly a common choice, nor is it an inconspicuous one. But you find the more of yourself you put into hockey, the better you play, and the more it becomes about how you move on the ice, the more freedom you have not to answer questions about your personal life.

So you put everything into hockey that you can, you push past your anxiety, you push past your fear and your loneliness, the thoughts that tell you you’re undeserving and a failure and _not normal_ , and for a long time, it’s enough.

Then the meds fail you – or you fail the meds; whichever comes first – and, suddenly, it’s not.

-

Your new teammates at Samwell are smart when they want to be, and irreverently funny, and most importantly they don’t ask questions.

Well, they ask some questions, obviously. Your name and major and what do you usually do besides hockey or are you just an ice robot? But they respect your privacy, too, which is everything, after the things you’ve been through.

Shitty lives across the hall from you. You appreciate the steadiness of living so close to one of your teammates, the reliability of almost always having someone to eat meals and walk to practice with, who understands what it’s like to live and breathe hockey.

Your classmates don’t. But people who don’t know hockey know who you are, which is jarring at first but something you just have to get used to. And the more days you spend in your classes with your head down, answering questions and asking others for help, the more they get used to you too.

Your teammates have never been awkward about it. They adopted you from the first day with gusto, just another person who knows what they’re doing, another player the team can use to their advantage in playmaking. These are guys who move easier on the ice than they do on land, which is something you understand deep inside you, in the very marrow of your bones.

Shitty is, probably, the least awkward about it, ever. It’s true that the first few weeks you know each other is replete with the requisite awkwardness of getting to know someone – “Do you mind if I - ?” “My bad, here you go – “ “Oh, uh, am I in your way?” – but then, after a particularly long practice, he ruffles your sweaty hair and says, “You smell like roadkill up and pissed itself, Zimmermann,” to which you answer, “I only learn from the very best, Shits – that’s you, by the way.” He hits you on the shoulder – “ _Rude_ , Jack” – and something you hadn’t even realized was tight in the first place loosens a little in your chest.

After you hit the showers, he says, “Dinner?”

After dinner, he says, “Studying?”

After about half an hour trying and failing to study – mostly due to the fact that Shitty is an amazing and interesting person to talk to, which also means he’s quite possibly the worst person ever to study with – he slams his book shut and says, “Beer?”

There’s no point in asking him where he got the beer, so you kind of just go along with it. He has a couch in his room, and when you sit on it he sprawls all over it and plops his legs in your lap. He takes a long drag of his beer and sighs.

“It tastes a bit like piss,” he says.

“Less like piss and more like cat vomit,” you say.

“Beggars can’t be fuckin’ choosers,” he says with a shrug, and drinks again.

He’s the kind of person who would wear his heart on his sleeve with or without a soulmate system that ensures that happens anyway, and he’s in a bro tank tonight, arms pale and exposed. A name you don’t recognize marches across the skin of his wrist, close to his palm, small neat letters and black ink stark against his skin.

He follows your gaze. “Crock of bullshit, am I right?”

You swallow a mouthful of beer. “The soulmate thing?”

“Trying to convince other people you don’t get attracted to other people is a bitchin’ helluva time when all they have to do is point at your arm and say, ‘you’ll find the exception one day’,” Shitty says, staring at the ceiling. “You know, sometimes I wish I didn’t have a name at all? Then maybe people would, like, take my sexuality at face fucking value? Although,” he snorts, “I guess I shouldn’t undermine the invalidatin’ capacities of cockbags who don’t think asexuality exists.”

For about half a moment, you wish you could switch places with Shitty, swap the smooth blank inside of your wrist for the name of a person you may or may not meet one day. Then you feel ashamed, because as cavalier as Shitty is about the whole thing you know his problem isn’t any easier than yours, it’s just different. And, on the most logical level, you don’t even need a soulmate.

But you’ve tried to tell yourself that since you were thirteen, and that’s long enough to know logic is no match for a traitorous mind like yours.

“I think you’re on to something there, though,” Shitty says, pointing at your wrist.

You look down at the cuff you bought about a year ago. It’s getting a little rough around the edges; might be time for a new one. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding decisively. “Ain’t no one’s business but yours. And if people don’t know, they just can’t get on your case for it. Should have thought of it years ago.”

It’s a good point. You’ve gotten invasive questions before, about the reasons why and even about who, but generally people leave you alone if you glare at them right. Shitty doesn’t have that luxury. Shitty’s probably gone a whole lifetime getting questions he doesn’t have the answers to. There’s a pang of sympathy in your gut. There are so many ways injustice finds its way into the soulmate system. So many ways people can exploit it.

“People are shitty,” you say.

He peers at you suspiciously. “Brah. That some kinda convoluted pun?”

You smile. “What do you think?”

He grins back, and claps you on your shoulder. “And they say Jack Zimmermann doesn’t know how to have fun.”

-

Eric Bittle arrives at Samwell armed with an arsenal of baking implements and his mother’s name scrawled on the inside of his arm.

Familial and platonic soulmates are not uncommon. There’s about a one in ten or fifteen shot of it happening to someone, a statistic you learned from Shitty. You’ve always found the notion a touching sentiment, despite how you overall feel about the soulmate thing – that one doesn’t have to be in love with your soulmate to love them, that people who are not your lovers can be just as important to you, if not more so – and yet, for some stupid reason you can’t comprehend, when confronted with such a phenomenon head on, you chafe.

You’ve been so used to the idea, by now, of not having a soulmate, a person who will love you unconditionally and eternally. You swore off love years ago. But you’re not strong enough to stop yourself from comparing the defiant blankness of your wrist to the names that sprawl across others’ skin. And you’re not removed enough from the system to prevent the seeds of resentment from blossoming in your gut when so many people around you don’t have any trouble with showing the world what is, to you, your biggest secret.

Bittle gets under your skin more than most do. It’s not anything he does, or even anything he says, really. It’s how he doesn’t even have to _try_. He charms the team effortlessly with his pies and his southern drawl. He skates through plays with an ease that would be infuriating, if the fact that he has such a debilitating block when it comes to checking wasn’t even more so.

And more than that, it’s like he doesn’t know how lucky he is. There are so many others who feel constricted by their names, by the pressure to fall in love with the right person, and what if you fall for someone whose name isn’t on your wrist, and what if you meet someone who isn’t even a good person for you? And yet there he is. He wears shirts that expose his forearms more often than he doesn’t. He has his mother for unconditional love, and the freedom to fall in love with anyone he wants.

As far as you know, you’re not allowed to love anyone.

He’s your teammate, though, and you’re his captain. The last thing either of you needs is for your personal feelings to get in the way, especially when your personal feelings are so goddamn irrational.

He’s a good skater, too, despite his flaws. Sometimes he glides across the ice so fast it sends your head spinning.

The problem is, of course, the checking. You can’t really do anything about the way you feel about him, but you can do something about the checking. You are certainly capable of that much.

The first morning you take him to Faber, it’s not fun for either of you. He’s groggy and unresponsive, and you don’t know how else to help but to just make him face his fears head-on. You’d learned about exposure therapy from your therapist, but you’re not an expert by any means. It’s rough. As he learns, you’re learning too. But you get through it, and by the end of it you’ve already made plans for another checking clinic for the next weekend.

The second week of checking practice, he looks particularly sleepy-eyed, and he doesn’t offer much protest or even complain all that much, which is a better sign than most that he’s in bad shape. Afterward, you relent to your sympathy for him and buy him a coffee.

“Huh?” he says when you press the cup into his hands.

“Late night?” you ask.

He nods. “Essay due today at eight. The professor’s fixin’ to make his class hell on earth, I’m thinking.” He sips at his coffee and lets out a satisfied little noise. “Then again,” he adds, looking at you pointedly, “he’s not the one who’s dragging me out of bed at absolutely unholy hours of the morning.”

“This again,” you deadpan, and pat at his shoulder as comfortingly as you can.

The fourth week of checking practice, he ends the session by skating through the check with moderate success.

“Nice work, Bittle,” you say, patting him once on the shoulder.

“High praise, coming from you,” he grumbles, but the corner of his mouth is upturned, just a little. You can tell he’s feeling victorious, and, well, maybe he has the right to.

“Exactly,” you say as you move off the ice. “You should feel good about yourself. You have to work for these compliments, after all.”

“You know, I think that’s probably more of a reflection on you than on me?”

“Uh huh. And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re a hardass?” he suggests.

You shoo him off to the showers and pretend you’re not fighting back a smile.

The sixth week of checking practice, he calls timeout in the middle of the session and goes to sit down at the bench, shoulders rising and falling at an almost alarming rate.

“Hey.” You sit next to him. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” He breathes out, and in again. “Yeah, sometimes it’s just more stressful than other times, y’know?”

You know.

“We’ve been going harder than usual,” you say. “I can tone it down, if you want.”

“It’s fine,” he says, gritting his teeth. “I can take it.”

You hazard a glance at him, steely-eyed and jaw tight with determination. He’s come a long way from the boy whose first response to this kind of thing was to beg for you to stop. The thought makes something a little like pride burst in your gut, which is as pleasing as it is surprising.

“If you’re sure.”

“What is this?” He squints at you. “Is this the great Jack Zimmermann showing _concern_ for another _human being_? Captain. I’m appalled.”

You allow yourself a small smile. “In my defense, practices have been getting better.”

Practices with the rest of the team really are getting better. Passes are connecting; the rhythm of the team is slowly clicking into place. You’re more satisfied than you thought you’d be at Bittle’s own successes – less hesitation in his plays, more trust in his teammates. It’s going to be a good season, and for that reason you can’t find it in yourself to regret helping him.

Or is that really the reason you feel that way?

He rolls his eyes. “Of course. Because the only reason why you could ever be worried is in relation to _practice_.”

It’s a joke, you know, but for some reason you’re overtaken by the sudden urge to tell him it’s not the case.

“I am glad things have been getting better for you, Bittle,” you say. “Really.”

He looks at you, clearly startled. And then he grins.

“Thanks, Jack,” he says. “Really.”

You get back onto the ice shortly after, and true to his word – despite your lingering concern – he takes it. It’s a good session.

Later, though, when you’ve parted ways and you’re back in your room at the Haus, you find yourself too preoccupied to study. You can’t stop turning the words he’d said earlier over in your head. Something about _concern_ , and _in relation to practice_ , and the way you reacted to that.

Because, even if he was joking, you’re not sure he realized he was wrong. In fact, you’re not sure if you yourself realized he was wrong until that very moment.

It’s unusual, probably, that somewhere down the line your professional concern about his mental block became something real without you noticing. But the thought is potentially distracting, and you can’t afford to let yet another thing keep you up at night. You put it out of your mind for the time being, and pretend it’s not because you’re scared of your own feelings coming back to bite you in the ass.

-

After Bittle comes out to the team, you take him to Annie’s and buy him a coffee.

“You can’t keep doing me favors like this, Jack,” Bitty says. He’s obviously trying to be disapproving, but you know his love of pumpkin spice lattes or whatever the hell they’re called transcends any negativity he could ever feel for anyone.

“It’s not a favor,” you say. “I just wanted to do something nice, for a change. I’ve been so hard on you.”

“Damn right,” He mutters into his drink. His gaze flickers up at you. “Are you – “

“I’m glad you feel comfortable enough with us to share something that’s part of who you are, Bittle,” you say seriously. “It’s important that the team’s a safe place for you.”

“Oh.” If you didn’t know any better, you’d say his cheeks were tinged pink. “Yeah. It’s – I’ve definitely felt safe with y’all.”

“Good,” you say. “If you need to talk about it, or if you need help with anything at all…”

“Yeah, I know.” He smiles. “Being on this team’s just been – such a nice change.”

You’ve heard things about the kind of shit he’d had to put up with in high school, but never in detail. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, breath whistling through his teeth. “You wouldn’t believe the kinds of things kids would do. The things they’d latch onto. It’s like – even just the fact that my soulmate is my mom? For some reason, that was a big deal. As if family and friendships aren’t just as important as romantic relationships?”

“Did that ever bother you?” The question comes out before you can stop it. “Sorry, that’s not…”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.” He raises his eyes to the ceiling, deep in thought. “Maybe there is a time in my life when I thought it was weird. But no, I don’t think – I mean, my mom was obviously super supportive, which always helps, but I just don’t think there’s any shame in having the main person I’ll always love unconditionally be my mom.”

You have never been able to fathom what it’s like not to feel shame about the inside of your wrist.

“And anyway,” he says, smiling a little to himself, “less pressure to find the One, right?”

You’ve never allowed yourself to even entertain the possibility of ever finding the One.

“Right,” you say, and try not to look too much at the name on his arm. It’s not been an impulse you’ve ever been able to control.

-

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _hey jack, you said if i ever needed help i could ask you right?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _what is it?_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _this is going to sound dumb, but with the game tomorrow… i can’t sleep_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _yeah. me neither._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _oh_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _do you wanna talk about it?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _okay._

You exchange texts with him, back and forth, until suddenly, it’s nine in the morning, and you’re blinking awake to bright sun.

You don’t know when, exactly, you fell asleep, or if the fact that there’s something about talking to him that somehow made you forget to notice is something worth thinking about. You don’t think about it.

-

You're used to spending your evenings alone, but on a night before your first round of spring semester midterms, you hear a soft knock on your door at eleven.

“Bittle,” you say, mildly surprised. “What are you doing in the Haus?”

“Oh, you know, it’s been kind of a crazy week, and what better way to deal with craziness than stress baking?” He laughs, but you know enough by now to know it’s not really a joke. “I noticed you were still awake, and I figured, with how up to your chin in assignments you must be and how hard it is at night for you anyway, I’d, you know… drop this off for you.”

He presents you with a small pie, smiling at you almost bashfully.

“I mean, it won’t help with the homework or anything,” he says quickly. “But maybe it’ll – help you deal with stuff? I dunno, maybe I’m the only one who thinks things are just better with baked goods, but…”

“Oh.” You take the pie. “Thanks.”

“It’s the least I can do after – well.” He rubs the back of his head. “Good luck with everything, Jack.”

After he’s gone, you put the pie on your desk, and you firmly do not think about Bittle noticing you have trouble sleeping at nights.

-

The tenth week of checking practice, you let him sleep in half an hour later than your usual time. By the time you get to Faber, the sun’s already rising. He makes a big deal of it, predictably, as he skates onto the ice. “Jack Zimmermann, doing me the _great honor_ of sleeping in an _extra thirty minutes_?” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “And it’s not even _dark_. Am I dreaming? Am I _alive_?”

“Yeah, yeah, keep it up and you’ll wish you had that extra thirty minutes of practice.”

“Threats don’t work on me, Mr. Jack,” he says, skating in a slow and lazy circle. “Sticks and stones and all that.”

“Yeah?” you say, cocking an eyebrow. “That’s why checking is so easy for you, eh?”

He scowls. “That’s _different_.”

You wince. “Sorry, that was a bit harsh. Let’s get started.”

“Just a sec,” he says, raising his arms above his head. “I’m still warming up.”

“It’s checking practice, you don’t have to – “

It’s too late; he’s already pushed off into the middle of the rink, and before you can say another word he’s spinning away into a jump that takes your breath away.

The light glints off the ice and plays in his hair, and when he skates by, his profile is set into sharp relief by the sun, and the only thing you think is, _Oh_.

He turns around sharply, then, toward you, tilted grin on his lips. “What’s wrong, old man?” he calls.

Everything.

“Nothing,” you say, and when you skate toward him, you can almost fool yourself into thinking you’re leaving your feelings behind too.

-

The coaches put Bittle on your line. The moment they announce it, your gut turns to ice.

“You’re a better player when you’re with Bittle,” they tell you.

It is, quite possibly, the last thing you would ever want to hear.

-

Of course, then you play against Princeton, and when he crashes on the ice, your heart crashes with him.

 _Bitty_ , you think. It’s the only thing you can think.

-

You’re not sure, exactly, when _Bittle_ became _Bitty_.

Was it during practice, moving through plays so fast you can’t spare time thinking too hard about the names you call your boys?

Was it during a game, connecting with him so easily sometimes it feels like breathing?

Was it in Annie’s, coffee on your tongue and pop music playing softly from tinny speakers?

Was it somewhere in your texts, lost in invisible lines of code and late night ramblings?

Was it in the Haus, the feeling of home thrumming in its very walls and its floorboards?

Funny how that works, the way the most important moments are the ones you barely notice are happening at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second part will come whenever I have the time [god willing], and let's all come together and pray it doesn't end up spiraling out of control beyond that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to the surprise of absolutely no one, I apparently lied when I said this was going to be two parts. I'm, like, reasonably confident I can finish this in three? Who knows, really. Anything could happen.

**II.**

Bitty’s absence on your line is a gaping hole you didn’t expect to feel. But it’s there, a rhythm that’s half a beat off, a body that isn’t present in a space you thought you’d find it in.

In the locker room, though, you look round at your boys, and something unknots a little in your stomach, something tight and painful. You’ll win this game for Bitty, who can’t right now, and for the rest of the team, who can. Any other outcome, at the present moment, is unthinkable.

Before you go on the ice, Ransom and Holster bump their shoulders into yours. Lardo gives you a fist bump and a sharp smile. Shitty claps his hand on your back and smiles at you, sideways.

They don’t say anything. They don’t have to.

-

After you lose the game, you go back to your room in the Haus and lie on your bed, fully clothed and staring at the ceiling, incapable of sleeping for the thoughts that scream inside your head.

There are reasons why you hate to lose.                      

The looks on your teammates’ faces – because you could have done something, _anything_ , to make sure they would never look like that after a game, and you didn’t – is one of them. The inevitability of disappointing everyone – to list all of them would, in itself, take all night; where would you even start? Your coaches? Your father? Yourself? – is another. There’s your heartbeat that still hasn’t calmed down, still racing away somewhere in your bloodstream, and the sweat that still soaks the space between the skin of your back and your shirt. There’s the headlines that haven’t been printed yet but that you can read anyway, big and black and bold, the chronicle of your failure spread across fronts of tabloids and on the tongues of pundits in a not so distant future.

And then there’s this.

You close your eyes, let the game play on the backs of your eyelids, and think about all the ways you could have been better, and all the ways you weren’t.

-

You wake up in the morning to a handful of texts.

**From: S. Knight  
** _f it all is it too early to get shitface hammered_

**From: S. Knight  
** _(no but srsly man u tried ur best it's ok)_

**From: Lardo Duan  
** _yo study and Annie’s at 1, be there or square ya nerd_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _hope you slept well :))_

You stare at your phone for a good minute or two, and for some reason you can’t quite explain – though, perhaps, you can’t explain because you know all too well – your throat feels tight.

It’s not true, really, to think that you lost the game. It was you, and it was the rest of your boys. You lost, but you lost with them. Surely, that must count for something, if nothing else in a world as confusing and mysterious as this one does.

-

The team elects you as captain for the next year, and you walk up to the podium and look at their faces smiling up at you, beaming with pride, and you swallow down the fear and let the warmth spread through your chest, because a captain is only as good as the people behind him, and you could not stand where you are without these people.

“Thank you,” you tell them. You mean it.

-

You know, on a theoretical level, that people who cover up their soulmate’s name permanently are not totally rare – otherwise there wouldn’t be a whole section in the store for “soulmate cuffs” – but in practice, Lardo Duan is one of the only two other people you’ve really known who do.

You didn’t ask why the first time you met her, or any other time, either. You’ve done this long enough to know how unwelcome questions are to people who have things to hide. Somehow, she ends up telling you anyway.

“I know what it is,” she tells you in low murmurs on the rooftop of Faber at the end of the year, leaning into your side. “The name, I mean.”

The other person you knew who covered their arm didn’t.              

“Mhm?” you say.

“Just don’t need that judgment from other people,” she says sleepily. “Don’t wanna be boxed in.”

Though that _is_ a reason you’ve heard before.

Your reason doesn’t really have much to do with being boxed in. Your reason has more to do with being boxed out.

“Makes sense,” you say.

“And if he knew,” she yawns, rubbing at her eyes, “what would he expect of me that I couldn’t give?”

You’ve seen her name on a wrist before, though the first time you saw it you didn’t know it. You are aware that sometimes, the name on your wrist and the name on theirs don’t match up. That’s yet another way things can go wrong. But you think, maybe in this case, they do. Maybe that’s the problem.

“Don’t think he’d expect anything of you that you didn’t want to do,” you say. “Think he’s worried about the same thing for you.”

“What, you read minds now?” It’s a joke, but neither of you laugh.

“What do you think it says that in all the time he’s known you, he’s never pressured you into doing anything you don’t want to do?” You pause. “Well. Not that I know of, anyway, but I guess I could always be wrong, in which case, has he, because I’ll gladly – “

“If he did, I’d get him first,” she says easily. “That’s not… Yeah.”

You squeeze her shoulder, for lack of anything to say. Words are easier at some times than others.

“Fuck, I dunno,” she sighs. “You’re right. I just. Don’t want to be left behind. I guess.”

And maybe you know what that’s like better than you should.

“It’s just something you guys have to work out on your own,” you say.

“Right.” She straightens up, then, and curls up on the ground beside you. “This soulmate thing is hard.”

You resist the urge, successfully for once, to look down at your arm.

“Yeah,” you answer. “I know.”

-

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _Safe flight home!!_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Thanks, Bittle._

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _:)_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _HOLY FLYING BISCUITS._

-

After the summer ends, Bitty moves into the Haus across from you, and it’s everything you thought it would be, and a thousand other things you didn’t.

It’s music when you don’t expect it, loud and obnoxious and by artists you’ve never heard of, jarring you awake in the morning. It’s opening the refrigerator to encounter a whole wall of neatly stacked butter, blinking in confusion and trying to figure out if it’s worth the effort to try to find what you’d wanted to look for in the first place. It’s becoming used to all the things that haven’t happened to the kitchen before, well-stocked pantries and something in the oven almost twenty-four seven, and knowing that that’s just the way it’s going to be from now on, and not caring, or minding, and feeling bemused at the revelation.

It’s cookies on your desk when you get in after a late night at the library, unlabeled. It’s taking the same history seminar, Saturday afternoons in the kitchen and late weeknights poring over notes and Bitty rubbing at sleepy eyes and sitting next to each other in class, shoulders almost close enough to brush.

It’s good mornings when you run into each other outside your rooms, good nights at the end of the day. It’s stepping into the kitchen and knowing that it’s all of yours, the Haus’s; his.

It’s late night texts from across the hall.

Puns and chirps and jokes and everything in between.

Falling asleep with the knowledge that he, sunshine voice and a sunshine smile that warms your insides, is close by.

It’s life, and somewhere in the middle of it – amidst the numerous pies and flurries of notes and all the practices, the relentless rhythm of a schedule that never slows down – you forget that you are supposed to mind, or care.

-

“You are _not_ going to pay for my coffee this time, mister.”

Bitty stares up at you, arms crossed. You know you’re technically supposed to be intimidated or something, but he looks so determined, it’s honestly a little endearing.

“Oh?” you say, raising an eyebrow.

“In fact,” he continues, “this time I’m paying for _your_ coffee.”

“The horror,” you deadpan. The line inches forward.

“You shush,” he says, hitting at your arm. Though he would probably never admit it in a thousand years, you can see the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Really, you better let me pay this time.”

You hold up your hands. “I mean, I’ll try, but no guarantees – “

“God _damn_ it, Jack!”

You fight down a laugh. “Hey, I think it’s our turn to order.”

You place your orders. While Bitty fumbles in his pocket for his wallet, you pull out your card – already in your hand, prepared for this very moment – and swiftly hand it over to the cashier. The glare Bitty shoots your way could probably move mountains, if that’s what people were.

“I swear to _God_ , Jack,” he says.

“Sorry, Bittle,” you say, shrugging your shoulders.

“Don’t lie to me, sir, you’re not sorry at all.”

“You’re right,” you say as you move to the side to wait for your orders.

He huffs. “Seriously, Jack, going behind my back like that – “

And, just like that, you feel a slight twinge of guilt in your gut. You’d done it to get a smile or even a laugh out of him, mostly, and he doesn’t seem that upset about it, which is good, but he’s right that you could have done it in a way that involved less subterfuge. “Sorry,” you say, reaching out to squeeze at his shoulder. “Next time, promise.”

He smiles at you, then, begrudgingly, and you have to spend a good two moments pretending it doesn’t make your heart skip a beat. “I’m holdin’ you to that,” he says, and smiles again, bigger. Pretending gets just a little harder.

The barista calls your names. You hold your cup in your hand, not thinking about how the warmth of it barely rivals the warmth in your gut.

“It’s such a nice day,” Bitty says, almost wistfully, as he glances out the window.

“I mean,” you say, “no rule saying we have to study indoors.”

His face lights up, and you pretend very hard that your heart doesn’t light up with it.

The two of you move your things outside. He seems happy to forego the various tables lying around for a spot under a tree overlooking the lake, and to be honest you don’t quite mind the dirt when you have the view.

“Lord,” he says, hugging his knees to his chest, “but now that I’m out here, I don’t actually want to study.”

You laugh quietly. “Study break?”

“We shouldn’t,” he says, biting his bottom lip.

“Hey, I’m the one who has to graduate this year,” you tease with a smile. “My grades matter more.”

He squints at you. “You calling me less significant?”

You look toward the lake. You can feel yourself still smiling, but it’s softer. Quieter. You’re not sure what that says, not sure if you want to know.

“Of course not.”

It’s silent for a bit after that. You lean your back against the tree. Studying probably is a thing you should be doing. Hockey practices have been getting intense in preparation for the upcoming games, and it’s not like time is an infinite resource for anyone, let alone hockey captains. But there are things you like better than studying. Gazing over the lake, taste of coffee faint in the back of your throat. The solidness of the tree behind your back.

Bitty sitting next to you, hand almost close enough to yours to touch.

You tear your attention away from the lake toward Bitty, as if that will help. He’s on his phone, thumbs tapping relentlessly, and it’s not something you expected to see him do, and yet you’re not really surprised at all.

“Really taking advantage of that study break, eh?” you say.

He glances up at you. “Hush,” he says. “I’m doin’ something important.”

“Twitter is important.”

“Very,” he says, poking his tongue out at you.

You fight back a bout of laughter. “Sure.”

He slips his phone back into his pocket and smiles, almost uncharacteristically bashfully. “You just looked so thoughtful, I didn’t wanna disturb you.”

You hum tunelessly. “I wasn’t, really.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Ha. Well.” You tilt your head as you look at him. “And what about you?”

“Well…” He looks down at his hands, a beat of hesitation. You don’t have time to think about how much you kind of don’t like it when he hesitates around you – or the terrible implications of that, or how you _shouldn’t_ think about it – before he speaks again. “A follower just asked me how I feel about the whole soulmate thing. Seeing as mine is my mom and I have, like, this unique perspective on it and all. Or something like that?”

“Ah.” Even on Twitter, to the whole world, to people he’ll never meet, he can be open about his soulmate. You push the thought away immediately. “Sensitive topic?”

“No, no, it’s just.” He sighs. “I mean, you ever think about how… unfair it kind of is?”

Every waking moment of your life, it feels like.

“Maybe,” you say.

“Like, the movies always make it look so good,” he continues, the words spilling out more rapidly with each passing second. “You meet a person whose name matches the inside of your wrist, and you fall in love, and you live happily ever after. And this whole stereotype that having a soulmate means you’ll fall in love with them. But what about the people who aren’t interested in love? What about the people like Shitty? What about – “

He breaks off sharply. He glances down at your arm, a movement you cannot miss, at the frayed edges of your cuff. You have to use all of your willpower not to move your arm out of his line of sight.

“And what about,” he says, turning his eyes toward the lake, blinking rapidly, “what about the people who fall for someone who already has a soulmate? What about the people who fall for people whose soulmates aren’t them?”

There’s something here, it feels like, that you’re missing. What he said didn’t sound like a generality. So, if he’s talking about something specific, what could it be?

Something you’ll never know, probably. Something about Bitty you’ll never find out.

He rubs at his arm, across the words _Suzanne Bittle_ , and laughs, breathily. “Lord, here I am just rambling…”

“It’s fine,” you say. “I understand.”

Because how could you not, having grown up in a world where love is decided for you before you even know what love feels like? How could you not, in a world that prioritizes the bond of romantic soulmates over all else, that barely acknowledges any other kind of soulmate can even exist? How could you not, after years of trying to convince yourself you deserved to love and to be loved, and failing?

But how could you ever say any of that out loud?

“You do?” he says, eyes widening, in surprise or fear you don’t know.

“Yeah,” you say, carefully. “I’ve… known enough people, I think, who were unhappy with the names on their arms, to know this soulmate thing isn’t easy.”

He exhales.

“Right.”

“I guess it’s just…” You lean back on your hands, mulling over your words. “We didn’t choose this. That’s what gets me the most, sometimes.”

“Yeah.” He huffs a laugh. “I guess when you think about it, it’s kinda messed up.”

“Ha. Kind of.”

You look toward the lake again. The sun is setting, streaking across the campus in shades of orange and gold. You haven’t finished your coffee yet. It’s cold. But you don’t really mind.

“Come on,” you say. You stand up and offer your hand to Bitty. “Better be getting back to the Haus before it gets dark.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

He smiles, and takes your hand.

-

A knock on your door, after class. Bitty pokes his head in.

“Jack, did you get the notes for today’s history lecture?”

You glance up at him from your book, raising your eyebrows. “Cutting class, Bittle? I expected better of you.”

He shakes his head and fights back a smile. “Ha _ha_ , Jack Zimmermann.”

“Yeah, just give me a minute.” You put your book down and retrieve the notes. You glance down at the page before you hand it over. _Ask Bitty?_ is still circled on the page, under the words _Final Project_.

“Uh,” you say.

He looks down at the page, looks back up at you. His face splits into a grin.

“I got your back,” he says.

Some part of you knew, probably, that it was always going to be that easy.

-

The hockey season stretches on. The frogs find their place, sliding into the cracks of the team and slipping into the cogs of your rhythm. Passes connect; pucks hit the back of the net. Each time your boys move together in near-flawless harmony fills you with an odd sort of peace. Every second your team gets stronger, your heartbeat gets a little bit steadier.

You practice. You play.

You breathe.

-

On the way back to the Haus after checking practice one winter morning, Bitty shivers.

You glance over, instinctively. He cradles his arms with his hands, and his knuckles are pink in the icy wind.

“Here, lemme, uh…”

“Jack, you’re not – “

But it’s too late; by the time he realizes what you want to do, you’ve already pulled off your gloves and are handing them to him.

He shoots you a withering look, but he takes the gloves without a word, regardless, and slides them on. They’re comically big on his hands, enough space in the fingers for them to fold over. “And what about your hands, Jack?” he says, frowning in concern. “I won’t stand for it if you get frostbite in this weather, I won’t.”

“I have pockets,” you answer.

“So do I!”

“Mine are better.”

He huffs, but settles in without further complaint. You can’t stop glancing at them, your big gloves on his small hands, ridiculously endearing. Your throat is inexplicably tight, to see his hands in your gloves.

The worst thing is, you want to hold them. You want to hold those small hands with their too-big gloves, and you don’t want to let go.

But it’s cold, and holding hands is for people who have names on their arms, so you shove your hands deeper into your pockets and walk the rest of the way home in silence.

-

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _can’t sleep?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _I could ask you the same thing, Bittle._

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _How’d you know_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _your light is still on_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _talk about it?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Yeah, let’s talk_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _You know, we are literally right across the hall from each other._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _…_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _can’t even escape the chirping after hours_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _unbelievable_

-

The end of the semester is impending. You do not think about one semester left before the rest of your career, the rest of your life, the rest of all the things you’ll never be able to know in the present. You do not think of the future.

-

“Hey, Jack, are you – wait, are you _hiding_ in your _room_ when Epikegster 2014 is happening literally right now? Jack!”

“You know, ‘hiding’ is a strong word.”

“Come on, you gotta go down at _least_ for a little bit. This is gonna be your last epikegster, Jack!”

“I mean, really, _hiding_ … I like to think of it more as a preventative measure – “

“Won’t you come down for one drink? Just one? For me?”

“Just one.”

“I mean, if you want more than that, far be it for me to stop you – “

“Ha. All right.”

-

You wish you could wonder how you somehow ditched all your plans to miss out on the kegster and shield your room from drunken partygoers to join the actual party, but in retrospect it is embarrassingly obvious why you’ve suddenly found yourself in the middle of the damn thing now.

Though, to be fair, “the middle” is a bit of an exaggeration. Leaning against the wall, on the margins, is a lot more comfortable than you could have imagined. It’s loud, of course, bass vibrating in the very walls and the pulse of shouted voices never stilling, loud enough that you have to lean in toward Bitty to carry on a conversation with him. The lights are bright and colorful and sometimes distracting, piercing through the darkness. But the atmosphere is almost intimate, in a strange way, and you almost don’t feel bad for thinking that.

“Okay, but, like, what’s the worst thing that could happen, down here?” Bitty is saying. “Wow, bad question, never mind. But really, I mean, _hiding_? On a night like this?”

“I told you, it’s not hiding, it’s – “

“I mean, I guess it’s fair that these things get a little… messy.”

“Understatement?”

“Ugh. Fine, maybe a little. But - !” He gestures wildly. “Last one! Shouldn’t you be dancin’ it up or whatever?”

“Me,” you say, voice flat. “Dancing it up.”            

He crosses his arms across his chest, but he’s smiling. “You gotta admit, that would be something worth seeing.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” you say, sipping from your cup. “So _that’s_ the reason you wanted me to get down here in the first place. To coerce me into dancing.”

“Oh, for _goodness’ sake_ – “

You laugh. “I see right through you, Bittle. I see it all.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” He rolls his eyes.

You smile to yourself. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing you dance,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows. “Talk about things worth seeing.”

“You know,” he says, “I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a chirp or a compliment?”

“That’s for me to know,” you say, smiling crookedly.

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling too, something you can’t miss no matter how much he ducks his head and tries to hide it. “You’re awful.”

“Awful?” Your smile turns to a grin. “Bittle, I’m hurt.”

“As well you should be.” He pulls out his phone, then, as if on an instinct to do so in lulls of conversation. You’ve heard all the arguments that being on your phone in the presence of other people takes you out of the moment, that it’s rude, distracting. It’s hard to begrudge Bitty for it, though, when being on his phone is just a way to make himself feel more comfortable.

“We should take a selfie or something,” you say, on a whim. “For your blog. Is it your blog?”

He stares at you for a moment. “Is _that_ a chirp?”

“Nah, I’m being totally serious.” He stares at you again, pointedly. “No, really. I mean, if it’s out, why waste the opportunity? Aren’t you good at taking them or something?”

“I’m gonna choose to take that as a compliment and pretend you didn’t just doubt my selfie taking skills,” he sniffs. “C’mere.”

The lighting isn’t very good, and someone passing by almost knocks the phone out of Bitty’s hand, and it’s an ordeal in itself trying to fit yourself into frame next to him, but though it’s a little blurred, when he shows you the picture you find yourself liking it anyway.

“Tell you what,” you say, handing the phone back, “I’ll make you a deal.”

He pockets his phone, leaning in closer to hear you. “Go on.”

“I’ll dance it up,” you say, pointing to your chest, and then to his, “if you dance it up.”

“If _I_ dance it up too?” He looks up at you, wide-eyed. “Are you saying – “

“Why not dance it up together?” You hold out your hand, smiling encouragingly.

And your pulse is slow, and steady, and you don’t feel like a colossal idiot for asking such a stupid question in such a stupid way. A marvel, really.

He looks at you again, appraisingly, and his eyes crinkle into a smile.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll bite.”

He takes your hand.

To no one’s surprise, it’s awkward, at first. You stay on the fringes of the crowd so you can keep a comfortable distance between each other, and it’s not like you’re well-versed in dancing, let alone dancing at parties, let alone dancing at epikegsters. He’s probably in the same boat.

But the beat of the music is insistent, filling your head up with its sound, and it’s not long before the two of you find your rhythm, not particularly graceful or elegant from the outside looking in but one that just kind of works for the two of you, feeling each other out, instinctual.

It almost reminds you of moving on the ice with him, in a vague sort of way.

After a few songs, though, you notice his heavy breathing, and the sweat on his brow. You place a hand on his elbow. “Take a break?” you yell in his ear. Shooting you a look of relief, he nods.

You escape to the stairwell. The second floor of the Haus is empty and thankfully a lot quieter, though you can still feel the music through the floorboards. “Want to hang out in my room?” you say. “Or yours?”

“Out here’s fine.” He collapses heavily against the wall and slides down to the floor. “That wore me out.”

You take your seat next to him, carefully. “Yeah.”

“Was fun, though.” He grins at you. “Wasn’t wrong about your dancing being worth seeing.”

You shake your head. “And you always get on me for chirping you.”

“Mm.” He leans his head back against the wall, faint ghost of a smile still lingering on his lips. “I should get to bed, soon. Or at least take a long break.”

“Yeah, I doubt you’ll be getting much sleep with noise like this,” you say, gesturing toward the stairs.

“Yeah, probably not.” He hugs his legs to his chest, pulls out his phone, scrolls idly. “I don’t think I had anything to drink, but I still feel kinda drunk.”

That feeling of overwhelmed, dull and heavy in your head. You understand it.

“We could do that thing we always do,” you say. “When one of us needs to get to sleep.”

“What, you mean talk?” Bitty raises his eyebrows. “Like, normal human communication?”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

“Yeah, we could do that,” he says. He makes a face at his phone, then, somewhere between surprised and uncomfortable, and shoves it back into his pocket. It’s an unceremonious sort of gesture. You get the sense that he’s a bit put off, though by what you can’t guess.

“You look like you already have something in mind to talk about,” you comment.

He sighs. “My twitter followers? The ones always asking me silly questions and stuff?”

“Yeah?”

“One of them asked if anyone on the team knew your soulmate.”

Your breathing does not speed up to hear something like that.

“Oh,” you say.

“It’s just? Such an invasive thing to ask? It’s not anyone’s business but yours. And asking me, of all people?” He’s agitated, more agitated than he usually gets about the things that bothers him. He breathes out shakily. “And as if knowing that even is a guarantee of romantic love? For anyone, I mean.”

“I’m used to that kind of thing. It’s no big deal.”

“That doesn’t make it _right_.” He shakes his head. “But then – I dunno. It’s got me thinking about other things, too, and…”

“The soulmate thing?” you offer.

“Yeah.” He tightens his grip around his knees. “About myself. I get questions about that too on a regular basis – “

“And those bother you?”

“No.” He rubs his hand over his arm absently, fingers moving up and down across the scrawl of his mother’s name. “It’s just like – don’t get me wrong, I _love_ my mother. I don’t regret her being my soulmate at all, even if it’s not something I got to choose. But people are always like, well, this means you can fall in love with whomever, and that’s not – it’s not that easy.”

Your heart clenches, briefly, in guilt. You know you weren’t fair to Bitty when you first met, but it hurts a little to hear it straight from his mouth, to be confronted with the injustice in front of your very eyes.

“Not,” he amends quickly, “that any of this is easy. For anyone. But I used to wonder a lot, when I was a kid, what it was like to just – _know_. To not have to worry about finding someone. To not have to worry about never falling in love. Like, what is it like to know someone’s _out_ there for you?”

Is that an inevitability of this soulmate thing? Is everyone doomed, no matter the name on their arm or the circumstances in their life, to wish for different outcomes, to regret a life they’ll never have? You realize, with a jolt, that you never quite thought of it like that, before now.

“Finding the One is a bit Hollywood, isn’t it?” you say.

“I know the One is, like, the biggest cliché there is,” he says, “but I guess what I’m trying to say is… I can see the appeal. Not – necessarily that I’d want it a different way? But I’ve wondered about it. Can’t pretend that I haven’t.”

It is deeply, profoundly unfair for Bitty to be unhappy and insecure about something like a soulmate name. It should be against the laws of the universe for Bitty to ever be unsure of whether he’ll find love one day.

But aren’t you unhappy and insecure about your soulmate name? Didn’t you promise yourself you’d never even let yourself thinking about finding love, over a decade ago?

Your thoughts are traitorous. Almost hypocritical.

“I get it,” you say, quietly. “I really do.”

He shoots a glance at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah?”

“Do you still worry about it?” you ask. “Do you still worry about not falling in love?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe.” He glances at you again, unsure. “Do – do you worry about it?”

You can’t help but laugh at that, can’t be bothered to prevent the bitterness from leaking into your voice. He’s looking at you in confusion, and concern, and other things no one should be feeling about you, especially not right now. You decide, in this moment, that you can’t stand it.

“No, it’s not something I worry about,” you say. “I accepted long ago that I never would.”

He blinks at you, confused. “What do you mean by that?”

It is, theoretically, not too late to turn back. You could play it off as a joke, if you did it very carefully. You could just laugh it off. You could change the subject, get Bitty to bed and go back to your room and let the sleeplessness consume you.

You could do that. Or you could tell the truth.

It’s a little terrible, you think, that you no longer know which is worse.

“There’s a reason I wear a cuff on my arm,” you say, slowly, half in disbelief that the words are actually leaving your mouth. You haven’t even thought about saying what you’re about to say in a long time. In years. You’ve never even told your parents.

Is that not reason enough to do this, though? Haven’t you always found keeping secrets exhausting? Haven’t you hated doing this, all these years, though you knew you had to?

But it’s not just that, even, not in this moment. It’s the loneliness in Bitty’s voice just now, almost imperceptible but still achingly present, and god, haven’t you spent enough years learning how deep the cuts loneliness leaves behind can be? It’s the sudden desire, burning, to show him he’s not alone in this because you _understand_ , you get it on a deeper, more visceral level than you could ever express to anyone.

And it’s the fact that you’ve grown to trust him, and even as you wonder if you should, you also realize, like being doused with cold water, that you don’t wish it were otherwise.

As if on cue, he glances down at the cuff. “Yeah?”

You look down at it, too, gray and nondescript and worn around the edges. You’ve taken it off before, of course, before hitting the shower and when it gets too old and you need to switch to a new one, but only once in your whole life have you ever done it in the presence of another person on purpose. The thought of adding a second person to that list, all of a sudden, makes you feel dizzy; like you’re standing on the edge of a mile high cliff, and you don’t know if jumping will kill you or save you.

“There’s only one other person who knows,” you say, distractedly.

“Oh, Jack, you don’t have to show me if you don’t want – “

He breaks off, suddenly, because you’ve pulled the cuff off in one swift motion, and the pale skin of your wrist is exposed to the light.

Smooth blankness, tan lines marking the edges of the cuff. Nothing.

He stares, openly and in wonder.

“Jack,” he says, “you – “

You shift your arm backward, then, to your other side, out of his line of sight. He’s seen enough; you both have.

“Jack,” he says, voice small, and you don’t understand why he would sound that way, you can’t comprehend why anyone would sound that way after looking at something as pathetic as the inside of your arm. “I’m – “

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry.” You close your eyes. “I just wanted to show you I understood.”

“No, no,” he says, quickly. “I was gonna – ”

You say nothing.

“Oh, god,” he whispers, almost to himself. “God,” he says, louder. “This whole time, I was complaining about me, I never knew – “

“Bitty, you’re not – “

“I wouldn’t even think something like that’s possible.”

“Yeah, well.” You laugh, self-deprecating. “I got lucky, I guess.”

You can’t see his face, but you can almost envision the expression on it, full of all the pity and concern you don’t deserve. You didn’t tell him for _pity_. The thought that he could pity you, that he _is_ , is grating. And yet what else could anyone feel about something so sad, so fucking _tragic_? What else were you expecting? Being honest, it seems, was doomed from the start.

Your heart trembles in your chest, at the thought. It’s not long before the rest of you is trembling, too.

“Jack,” he says. “It’s – it’s okay.”

But it’s a lie. It’s not okay, it never has been. Who is he, who is anyone, to pretend otherwise?

“Can I – “ Hesitation. “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer, if it’s too much.”

You wait.

“One other person? If you don’t mind – I mean, who _are_ they?”

Who are they? Who would the kind of person you’d trust with something like this be?

-

Who is Kent Parson?

You wondered the same thing, when you first met him. The first person you ever met who also had a cuff on his arm. You didn’t ask questions – you’d never think about asking the kind of questions you’ve always hated to be asked – but you wondered. You wondered, because back then you didn’t know why anyone would want to cover their arm. You knew your reasons; you couldn’t guess at anyone else’s.

It hadn’t taken very long to find out the answer to the first question you never asked. You moved well on the ice with him, better than you ever had in your life. You could conquer worlds with him, it felt like; you could be invincible.

Was it love? Hard to say. Hard to say for you, a boy with no destiny, with no future when it came to things like that.

But it was something. It was something, and maybe that’s why you pushed him away.

The name on his wrist, after all, could never be yours.

-

“Someone I once knew well,” you say. It comes out hoarse, unexpectedly.

There’s silence, for a while. Your eyes are still closed, so there’s darkness, too. Silence and darkness. That’s not a combination you mind. It’s when there’s one without the other that it gets truly unbearable.

There’s silence, and there’s nothing.

Until there’s not.

Fingers, tentatively hooking through yours. Only for a brief moment before they pull away, but they’re sweaty, and warm, and that, of all the things that have happened tonight, is what makes your heartbeat race away into the unknown.

“I get it, too,” Bitty says, quietly, almost so quiet you don’t catch his words.

You wonder, for a moment, if he does. You wonder if it matters.

Because the thing is, doing this, telling him, was a mistake. Once you think that, you can’t stop the regret from coming in waves.

“I think I should head to bed, now, too,” you say, abruptly. You open your eyes, and stand. You refuse to look at him.

“Jack – “

You exhale hard, clench your fists at your side. Why did you ever think this was a good idea? He’ll never look at you the same. You don’t want to see how he looks at you now.

“Night, Bittle.”

You go into your room, and shut the door behind you. You pretend you’re not shaking, that the thoughts that fill your skull won’t keep you up until dawn.

You pretend you don’t know if showing Bitty this part of you, the ugliest and the most _not normal_ , was the worst mistake you’ve ever made.

You pretend very hard.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia - my deepest and most sincere apologies that it took me like two and a half months to finish your birthday present. I have a long list of excuses but you know them all already, probably. Hope you enjoy this last part anyway.

**III.**

The morning comes slowly, warm and relentless against your aching eyelids.

With some effort, you open them. Your phone is flashing. One unread message. Exactly one.

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _I hope you’re doing okay, Jack._

It’s just about the last thing you expected to read, and yet it is, at the same time, completely and utterly unsurprising. You drag your hand across your sleepless face and through your hair, suppressing the urge to groan loudly and self-indulgently. You feel sorry that you’re awake – have been for most of the night, and god, isn’t it ironic that you could be so tired of not sleeping? – and sorrier that you remember the details of last night in excruciatingly clear detail. Everything’s there, from the minute changes in Bitty’s facial expressions, the painful stuttering in your own voice, to the good parts of the night – the dancing, the pictures, the laughing. The freedom. All gone, because you were stupid enough to let it go.

But there’s no point in feeling sorry, is there? It’s out there. It’s done. Nothing you can do to take it back, even if you wanted to.

Do you want to?

There’s an incredibly loud air horn noise, then, so loud you jump in your own bed, followed by Shitty’s yelled voice – “rise and fucking shine, motherfuckers!” – and a chorus of muffled groans. You fall back onto your pillow, disgruntled but somehow fighting back a smile, despite yourself, despite everything. You can envision the Haus slowly coming back to life – displaced partygoers shuffling out, Holster halfheartedly attempting to make breakfast through the haze of a hangover (read: attempting to pour cereal into a bowl, and invariably failing). Bitty, bright and awake, cleaning up the remains of the previous night virtually singlehandedly, possibly even gently removing whoever’s in the kitchen and taking over breakfast-making duty himself. He really does make the best pancakes. All of his cooking is the best.

“Shit,” you whisper to yourself, rubbing at your eyes. “Shit,” you say again, louder. It’s satisfying, somehow. In a few minutes, you’ll get out of bed, and you’ll dress and you’ll go out on your morning run or you’ll rally the troops for one last practice before winter break. Or if you don’t do any of that you’ll study until the words float off the page and the thought of coffee sounds better than it ever has your whole life. It’ll be something normal. Something that you’ve always done on a morning like this. The fact that this will happen is merely an inevitability, as sure as you can be of anything else.

Sometimes, things happen, things you regret. But life doesn’t stop for anyone, and it’s always gone on after all your worst days. The fact that you’re here, right now, after everything you’ve been through, is proof of that.

You grab your phone. Life will resume in just a few minutes, but only after you let it.

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Thanks. You too._

-

You land in Montreal with the kind of relief that comes with familiarity, the feeling of home settling itself somewhere inside your ribcage and slotted next to your beating heart.

Your mother is waiting for you at the airport. She greets you with a smile, gracious as always, and when you embrace her it feels like a well-worn instinct, arms tightening around her and the smell of her perfume reminding you a little of childhood.

“Bonjour, maman,” you say, kissing her on the cheek.

“Welcome home, Jack,” she says. She smiles.

When you get home, it’s almost easy to lose yourself to routine – hanging up your coat in _this_ closet, putting your shoes _there_ where they’ve always gone. You go to your room to unpack and are pleasantly surprised when you find a bag of cookies nestled among your clothes, accompanied with a note in handwriting you don’t have to think about to recognize. You left things in shambles after the epikegster, that’s true. But maybe you can come back from it. Maybe you’re already getting there.

In a way, you’re glad for the reprieve of winter break. It seems like it came at the best possible time. There’s only a semester left of school but it feels right to come home now. You need the time and space to yourself. You need a clear head. You need the feeling of family and home to wrap yourself up in like a blanket, warming the tips of your fingers until all your past mistakes feel less like shards of regret and more like faded fragments of a long ago dream.

Christmas is lowkey but warm, and comfortable. Spending time with your family has never felt more comfortable. Your parents’ understanding is quiet and unassuming, and you appreciate that better than you might have when you were younger. They trust you to come to them if you need it, to be honest when you can and to believe that they understand when it gets hard. You appreciate that, too.

While at home, you call Shitty a few times. It’s a way to remind yourself you have a life back at school, people who have your back without you needing to ask them. You call him on Christmas Eve, and he calls you on New Year’s at midnight. Both times, you manage to catch him shitfaced drunk.

“Zimmermann, my man!” he greets you at midnight, voice loud and crackling over the speaker. “Howzit going, you beautiful bastard?”

You breathe out a laugh. “Good. You’re on speaker and my mother’s here, so don’t embarrass me too much.”

Your mother raises an eyebrow at you.

“Brah. I can make no such promises. Hey, Mrs. Z! Happy frigging new year, you guys!”

“Happy new year, Shits,” you say, grinning.

“To a year of complete and utter debauchery,” he vows. “Also, going to the championships this year. Oh, and while I’m here, I’m gonna go ahead and say to hell with the wage gap. That’d be rocking, in this good year of 2015.”

“Debauchery? Are you trying to corrupt my team?”

“Hey, now, can’t corrupt anything that’s already there.”

“Is this all you called me to say? I feel almost betrayed.”

“And to drown in your gorgeous voice, dude. Have I ever told you that? Your vocal chords could charm the pants off of _Grandma Shits_ , that’s how potent they are.”

“I’ll pass, thanks. Should let you get back to your party.” From the background noise, it sounds like quite the party indeed.

“Don’t need to tell me twice, my guy.” A pause. “It’s gonna be a good year, Jack. I can feel it.”

You smile again, to yourself. “Yeah.”

“Bye, Mrs. Z! Bye, Jack.” A click of the receiver, and he’s gone. You slide your phone back in your pocket, fighting back a smile that won’t quite go away and finding yourself glad for it.

“He sounds like he’s doing very well,” your mother says.

You look up to her, mildly surprised. “Yeah, he’s been – good. Getting ready to figure out what to do next year, I think, but. Yeah.”

She hums. “A little like you, huh?”

“Haha, yeah.”

“The future can be kind of scary, so I understand.” She smiles again, warm and teasing. “Have you thought about it beyond hockey? Maybe finding your soulmate, even?”

It’s been a long time since your parents brought you to the store to buy you your first soulmate cuff. It’s not a topic that comes up often. You’ve always gotten the sense that they think it’s sensitive for you, which is a reasonable assumption to make about someone who’s kept their wrist covered ever since the day they were supposed to get their name. And in a way, you guess you are. Maybe you don’t mind so much talking about it anymore, though. Not – about the actual name, because you still haven’t forgotten how bitter the shame tasted in the back of your throat the last time you showed someone your wrist. But just the whole system. Knowing how difficult it is in general, for just about everyone else, makes it easier to talk about.

“Not,” she amends, “that you need to think about it right now, if you don’t want to. You have your whole life ahead of you for that. Nor do you need a soulmate to be happy. I fell in love several times before I met your father, you know. Just because I was lucky enough to meet my soulmate doesn’t mean those relationships mean any less.”

You nod. “I don’t know about my soulmate,” you say truthfully. “But – there might be someone.”

“Oh?”

“The thing is,” you say, and surprisingly enough the words don’t fight their way out of your throat like they might have long ago, “I don’t think our names match up.” You don’t mention how high the odds are stacked against you, first that he might return your feelings at all, and second that you might somehow manage to make it work despite your career and the whole world watching. You don’t mention that you don’t even _have_ a name to match anyone’s with.

“Must be tough,” she says softly.

You exhale. “Yeah, a bit.”

She reaches out and places a hand on your shoulder. You don’t flinch away.

“It takes more than names to find happiness, Jack,” she says. “I’m not saying you need to go for something if you don’t think it’ll work out, but… I think it’s important to know that.”

She’s right, of course. She usually is. And you guess that’s something you’ve always known, or have tried to tell yourself, anyway. But somehow it’s different to hear words like that from someone who isn’t you. Somehow that makes them easier to believe in, or at least to think that you might one day.

“And whatever happens,” she says, “your father and I will do all we can to support you.”

That’s easy to believe, too.

“Thanks,” you say, and when you smile, it feels almost simple, if only for a moment.

-

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _Happy new year’s Jack!_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Thanks, Bittle. You too._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _Any resolutions?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _That’s for me to know and for you to… never find out probably_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _Jack!! After everything we’ve been through!!!!_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _That’s how it’s gonna be?????_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Haha. I guess_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _i *never*_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _You have any?_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _frankly after a stunt like that i don’t know if i want to tell you_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Aw, Bittle_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _but because i’m way nicer than you i actually will_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _i guess mostly… mostly i just wanna try to find a bit of happiness this year_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _that’s about all we can hope for isn’t it :)_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Wow._

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _I think your resolution is better than mine and now I’m disappointed in myself_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _i was not aware this was a competition mr. zimmermann_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _also, is your resolution to win hockey because color me completely and absolutely unsurprised_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Haha. Here’s to 2015, Bittle. Let’s make it count._

-

You get back to Samwell, and it feels like you can breathe just a bit easier.

The semester starts quietly, and you resume hockey practice with enthusiasm. One January morning, you usher the team to the Pond, completely frozen over, for some Shinny. Bitty approaches you as you’re taping your stick.

“Hey, Jack,” he says.

“Oh, hey, Bittle.”

“How’re you doing?” he says tentatively. “Sorry, I don’t wanna, like, bother you or anything, but I just wanted to – I guess I just wanted to ask about the end of last semester? I know we didn’t exactly leave it off on the best note…”

You turn to him and smile, as gently as you can. “Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that too, actually.”

He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry I walked out on you like that,” you say, looking him in the eyes. “It wasn’t the best thing I could have done in that situation. I just get worked up about this kind of thing, I guess. It was getting overwhelming.”

“Oh, no, Jack, you don’t have to apologize like that!” His eyes widen. “If anything, it should be _me_ saying sorry, I didn’t – “

“Bittle,” you say. “It’s okay.”

“… You sure?”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “It’s… not an easy thing for me to talk about. I don’t have a great history with handling it. And maybe one day, I’ll be able to say more about it. But it’s still new to me, the idea of being open when it comes to – that. So I guess what I’m trying to say here is… Thank you. For understanding, I mean. Really.”

He nods, looking down at his skates. “Of course. It’s something you gotta take at your own pace. And – I’m here? To talk, if you want? Only if you want, though.”

“Yeah. I appreciate that.”

“I’m just – “ He looks up at you and grins. Even now it still takes you aback, how bright his smile can be. You almost feel like you have to look away if you stare too long. “I’m glad you’re okay, Jack.”

You let yourself smile back. It feels good to be able to answer smiles like that with your own, and actually mean them.

“Yeah.” You hold up your fist. “You too, Bittle. Here’s to a great semester.”

He knocks your fist with his own, and smiles wider.

“It’s gonna be good,” he says.

-

Practice is paying off. You’re winning games, and the momentum just keeps going, keeps your muscles moving forward and your thoughts in the moment, because you can’t think beyond the present, you can’t stop for a single second. There is a time and place for thinking about the future, and the ice is not it.

So you play, and you win, and you let yourself feel it. Victory feels like air in your lungs; each success keeps you _alive_.

-

This is one of the few times you’ve ever caught Shitty in your bed wearing pants. This is your first and only clue that he means business.

“Come here, Jack,” he says, patting at the spot next to him. “Come help me deal with my manly problems.”

You come over to sit next to him. “You do realize you just invited me into my own room?”

He waves a dismissive hand. “Details. They’re so fucking annoying.”

“Is this about you getting into Harvard?” You squint at him suspiciously.

He brings a hand to his forehead and pretends to swoon all over you. “Alas, I have fallen prey to the all-powerful forces of rich, white, elitist higher education. And it’s _so far_.”

“It’s half an hour from Samwell.”

He stills against you. “Every motherfucking minute counts, my man.”

This is getting serious. You purse your lips. “Talk to her?”

“You make it sound so goddamn easy.”

“You won’t know until you try,” you posit. You decidedly ignore the sting of hypocrisy that comes with saying those words.

“Yeah. Maybe.” He sighs. It’s light and breezy, and it’s the saddest sound you’ve ever heard him make. “Guess they never said I had to figure it out on my own.”

The words, for some reason, strike something inside you. Not a chord, not quite. More like a note, simple and clear and ringing. You take the feeling into consideration, and try not to poke and prod at it too much.

-

Your visits to Annie’s with Bitty don’t stop. In fact, as the semester wears on and the exams continue to get harder, they get longer and more frequent. Weekly, almost.

Sometimes it’s just to study. Lardo and Shitty are there more often than not. Sometimes it’s to talk and laugh and do nothing else.

Sometimes, it’s just the two of you, and sometimes it’s serious.

You decide to talk to Bitty about all the things you haven’t talked about since the epikegster on a cold February afternoon, coffee cup warming the chill out of your fingers as you hold it in your palms. It’s not a decision you put too much thought into, not exactly, which might be a surprise if it weren’t for the fact that around Bitty, it’s become easy not to think. Not, of course, like that, but more in the sense that when you’re talking to him you don’t second guess yourself as much. Conversation with him feels more like an instinct than a conscious choice. And maybe that’s what drove you to bring up the topic of soulmates again at all. Instinct.

“So this soulmate thing,” you begin. If you’re going to be starting a hard conversation on your own, you might as well be straightforward about it.

“Mhm?” He sips at his coffee liberally, waiting for you to continue.

“I know I’ve been angsting about it pretty hard.”

“Oh, Jack,” Bitty jumps in immediately. “Of course not. No, if anyone’s angsting, it’s gotta be me. I mean, really, the number of times I brought it up with you before I knew is just ridiculous.”

“Well.” You let yourself smile, the feeling of it tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Maybe it’d help to just – let ourselves talk about it.”

“How… How do you mean?”

You shrug. “I mean, whatever the movies say, we’re all doing this soulmate thing kind of blind, aren’t we? So why do we have to try to figure it out on our own?”

It should feel strange to be having a conversation like this. You haven’t forgotten how you felt when you showed him the inside of your wrist, the anger and the bitterness rising up like a flood in your lungs. It should feel strange to want to be honest about it after a night like that. But it doesn’t. You can’t remember the last time you felt strange around Bitty.

“I guess you’ve got a point,” he says.

“I always do.”

“Mr. Zimmermann, _don’t_ push it.”

You laugh softly. “Okay. Well, for starters, you probably have questions, right?”

“Yeah, uh… Are you sure it’s okay for me to ask them?”

You nod. “I’ll tell you if it’s not. And you do the same for me.”

“Okay, okay.” He takes in a deep breath. “Am I really only the second person you’ve told?”

Wow. Starting out with the big guns. You tell him as much.

“I’m curious, is all! Sorry, I mean – you don’t have to answer, if you don’t – ”

“Yeah.” You grimace. “Yeah, you are. The second person, I mean.”

“Not even your parents?”

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. “Not even them.”

“Oh, Jack.” His voice is soft, sympathetic. The pity there isn’t condescending, as you once feared. You don’t know how you could have ever thought Bitty was capable of condescension.

“Old habits die hard, I guess.”

“I just – the thought of you holding all that in for so long…” He shakes his head. “Like, I know part of it must have been all the press and stuff, but… no one should have to carry a burden like that on their own.”

Your heart constricts, unbidden. “I chose to.”

“When you were young, and didn’t know any better.” He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Do you know better now? I mean… that it’s okay? That whole – thing, I mean.”

Honesty, you think. That’s what you need to be shooting for right now. That’s what this whole thing is about.

“I don’t know,” you say. Oddly enough, it doesn’t hurt to admit that out loud. “I’m… I’m trying. I guess telling you in the first place was me trying.”

He nods, mulling over your words.

“It’s hard,” he says. “This whole thing has always been hard.”

“The questions?” you guess. “The assumptions?”

“A bit of both, I guess.” He makes a face. “Stuff you can’t really put a name to, either. Like – the doubts, mostly. I dunno, it’s hard to explain, but it’s just like – how does anyone know what love really feels like, y’know? When most everyone says you’re only supposed to get one shot at it? Things like that.”

You know.

“Can I ask you something else?” he says, almost boldly.

“What is it?”

“You were really vague, when you mentioned that first person…” He rubs a hand on the back of his neck, almost shyly. “You don’t have to talk about them, really, if you don’t want to. I guess I was just wondering, though.”

“Wondering about the kind of person he was, you mean.”

He exhales. “Maybe.”

You nod once. “His name was Kent Parson, for one.”

His eyes widen. “ _The_ Kent Parson?”

“Yeah, him. We played together back when I was in the junior league. It’s – a complicated story.” One that lives most often in the back of your head, out of sight but lingering insidiously over all your memories, your thoughts. There are certain details, intimate details, that belong just to the two of you, but the overall picture might be good for Bitty – _someone_ – to know. “He was the first person I met who also wore a cuff. It wasn’t really something we talked about, though? We just – _understood._ We knew what it was like for the press and everyone else to wonder about that kind of thing.”

Bitty nods, wordless.

“Then one day we got drunk.” You exhale a laugh. “Not that that was uncommon back then, but. That night was different, somehow. We started talking about soulmates. We’d never done that before. He kept on saying that he didn’t know what his wrist said, that he’d put on the cuff without looking because he didn’t want it to hold him back – I guess at the time he just didn’t really want to look – but that maybe he ought to know. And maybe that should be sooner rather than later. Maybe he’d already found his soulmate, and he needed that confirmation. He wanted me to show my wrist to him, too, because I was dumb and told him I didn’t know, either, so I guess he must have assumed – I dunno. Eventually I just kind of gave in.”

You weren’t drunk enough that night to forget what happened next. The silence that fell over the both of you when you yanked off your cuffs at the same time, your eyes glancing over the name on his wrist that wasn’t your own and his taking in the stark blankness of yours. The mute shock when he looked back up at you, the freezing dread that seized your lungs, your heart. You don’t know what you’d expected, really. You should have seen it coming. You’d figured, at that point, that of all the people you’d ever known, Kent was the closest you’d come to finding a soulmate. If he wasn’t it, it felt like back then, who could it possibly be?

Of course it wasn’t you, on his wrist. You’d never be on anyone’s wrist; that’s what you learned that night.

There were other things you learned that night, too. What Kent’s face looked like after he’d just suffered a crushing disappointment, those rare times he felt like he actually _lost_ something. What his face looked like after a fight, a real and honest fight with pushing and pulling and gritted teeth and words neither of you meant but you went ahead and said anyway for some reason you could never quite articulate. And the fact that you believed, somewhere deep down inside you, you didn’t have a name because you didn’t deserve it.

Do you believe that, still? Does it matter?

“Long story short,” you continue, voice steady, “it wasn’t the result either of us wanted. I – I pushed him away, after that. He tried to make amends, but I wouldn’t let him. Figured it would be best for him if he wasn’t tied to me in any way, you know? Clean break. Not that clean, considering all the shit that happened after that, but… I haven’t really talked to him since I came to Samwell.”

Your chest had ached, you realize, through that whole story. You only realize it now because once it’s over, it’s gone. You hadn’t even known that it hurt until it didn’t anymore.

Bitty doesn’t say anything, for a long while. You’re fine with that, surprisingly. You don’t mind his silence, and you don’t expect him to respond. You sit there and you drink your coffee, and you let the feeling of truth sit warmly in your chest, tingling and potent.

Then he takes hold of your hand and squeezes it gently. He doesn’t hold it for very long, but the warmth of his palm is reassuring, and the pressure of his skin against yours is answer enough.

-

On roadies he’s taken to sitting next to you now, offering you an earbud without asking.

You always take it.

-

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _[image]_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _our frogs are so adorable, all cuddly and fighting over blankets look at em_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _That’s cute._

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _You should be sleeping along with them, Bittle. Big day tomorrow._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _okay, ignoring the fact that hello pot, meet kettle (that’s me, btw)_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _why do you think i’m messaging you?????_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _talking to you’s better than any sleeping pill_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Is that a compliment or are you just calling me boring_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _Sir, that’s for me to know ;) ;) ;)_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Wow. That’s how it’s going to be._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _that’s exactly how it’s gonna be :)))_

-

After your last game as captain of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team, Bitty finds you first.

There are no words, none either of you can say. He embraces you, and you let him. For once, you let him. And it doesn’t feel like a concession, or a mistake. You are not weak for letting him near you, for letting him see and feel all the worst and ugliest parts of you. You are not weak for taking strength from his presence, or for letting him do the same. You are not weak.

-

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _You played well, Bittle._

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _I think that’s the best I’ve ever seen you play._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _Jack…_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Just. Good game, Bitty. Good fucking game._

-

Life goes on.

Ransom and Holster are voted captains. They accept the honor together, making a long and rambling speech that starts off where the other ended and still manages to sound cohesive and dignified. It seems rather fitting that they would do this together. Ever since they found their names on each other’s wrists, they’ve barely spent a moment apart.

Shitty doesn’t _tell_ you that he’s talking to Lardo about their stuff, per se, but you feel like it’s pretty obvious, anyway. They’ve been spending a lot of time on the roof together, heads bent toward each other and sometimes staying together until the sky turns light. He catches you once after a session with Lardo, brimming full with words like “long distance” and “queerplatonic” and a myriad of others you can’t begin to wrap your head around. “I know, I know, it sounds batshit insane,” he says, gesturing wildly, “but it’s worth a shot, right? Right. Of course I’m fucking right.”

Your throat is oddly tight, for some inexplicable reason. It’s not because of Shitty and Lardo, can’t be. If there’s anyone you’d believe to make a tough situation like that work, it’d be them.

But –

“What? You aren't going to say anything? Jack. I’m hurt.”

The thing is –

“I believe in you guys,” you say.

The thing is, if Shitty and Lardo can’t make it, what chance do you have if you can’t even get as far as telling _him_?

“Did I just get Jack fucking Zimmermann’s motherfucking blessing? Holy everliving shit.” Shitty beams. “Just warms my little aro ace heart.”

What chance do you have if you haven’t even tried?

-

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _studying or just can’t sleep?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Three guesses, the first two don’t count_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _:/_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _anything you wanna talk about?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Just thinking too much, I guess._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _Yeah?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Always think too much, when it comes to the soulmate thing._

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Or not at all. Which isn’t much better either, honestly._

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Just. What kind of freak mistake results in just… not having a name? You know?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _What if I never find someone who’s supposed to love me the way a soulmate does?_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Or. The other way around too I guess_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _I mean… what does that say about me?_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _But Jack… People do love you that way_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _There’s your parents and the team and_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _you know shitty’s always saying love doesn’t need to be romantic to matter_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Yeah. Yeah he’s right. And you are too._

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Telling yourself to think something isn’t the same thing as actually thinking it though. It’s… hard._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _yeah i get that… i’m still working on it too i guess_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _You think we’ll get there eventually?_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _well. there’s no sense in not trying, is there?_

-

“It’s kinda chilly today, don't you think?” he says to you, rubbing at his arms on the way back to the Haus from Annie’s.

You don’t spare a single second thought before you take the jacket off your back and offer it to him.

“Is this just gonna be a trend with you now? Just constantly giving me your clothes at every available opportunity?” he huffs, though his complaining doesn’t prevent him from accepting your jacket.

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“ _Hush_ , Jack.”

“Anyway,” you say, grinning, “my pockets are better.”

The sleeves are longer than his hands. You don’t know why that observation, more than anything, has your heart feeling like it’s swelling in your throat. It just does.

“I bet they are,” he says, smiling back. It doesn’t drop the whole walk home.

-

“Jack, you didn’t forget your umbrella, did you?”

“Okay, so I _may_ have made a slight miscalculation when looking at the weather report this morning – “

“Get under here, Mr. Zimmermann.”

It’s a tight squeeze. Almost the entirety of your left shoulder juts out from under it. You’re the taller one, so you have to be the one holding it. Stubbornly, he wraps his fingers around yours. His touch is warm enough to send your skin tingling.

-

“Come on, Jack, just one more episode.”

“All right, all right, fine.”

“You won’t regret it, promise!”

He snuggles in closer to you, solid weight against your shoulder. Instinctively, without thinking, you let your arm curl loosely around his back. If you close your eyes, you can almost let yourself tuck your chin over his head, his hair tickling at your neck. You can’t see him smile, but you can practically _feel_ it, soft and lingering and persistent, warm like coffee.

-

You are going out of your goddamn mind.

-

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _can’t sleep_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _Talk?_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _you could come over here_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _if you want_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Okay._

-

It’s one in the morning. You’re sitting in Bitty’s room, next to him on his bed, hip to hip, arms pressing together warmly. He’d put on some quiet music earlier for the “ambiance”. It’s pleasant, admittedly, to listen to. His foot taps to the beat of the current song against yours, insistent and reassuring.

“Lord, I don’t even _know_ what I’m gonna do next year with Shitty and you gone.” He makes a face, scrunching up his nose. It is unbearably adorable. “I was just gonna say the Haus might finally be quiet for once, but then I remembered Ransom and Holster.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure ninety percent of any commotion or noise in this building can be attributed to them,” you answer lightly.

“Oh, ninety-five, easily.”

“Ninety-eight.”

“Now, you've gotta give you and Shitty _some_ credit.” He sighs fondly. “I’m serious, though. What’s it gonna be like without you guys?”

You shrug carefully. “Guess you’ll get to find out. You know I’ll drive up here as often as I can, though.”

He hums tunelessly. “And we’re gonna call, of course. Lots and lots. You’ll never get me to shut up.”

“Really?” Your heart skips a beat before you can quite stop it. “You mean that?”

“Yeah. Of course, Jack.” He glances at you. “That was never in question.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

He smiles at you, almost sadly.

“I’m gonna miss you, Jack,” he says. “I mean, you’re not even gone yet, and I know I will.”

“Yeah?” You could make a joke here if you wanted. Somehow, though, it doesn’t seem like the best time for not being serious.

“Yeah.” He exhales, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think it almost came out shakily. “You’re my best friend, Jack. I don’t – I don’t think I’ve told you that enough.”

You have the urge, suddenly, to hug him, to pull him into your side and wrap your arms around him and never let go. It is as overwhelming as it is irrational.

“I’ll miss you too,” you say. “A lot.”

Silence, for a heartbeat, and another.

“This is a nice song,” you say finally, for lack of anything else to say.

He gasps loudly. “Did Jack Zimmermann just compliment my music? Alert the presses, everyone.”

“Ha, ha. No, really, though, it’s – “ you struggle, briefly, for the right word. “Pretty.”

“Oh, so eloquent.”

“I try, okay?” You knock your shoulder into his.

“Sure do.” He hums along to the beat of the song. “Used to imagine doing a figure skating routine to this one.”

“Yeah? It’s pretty dynamic.”

“Dancey,” he says. He looks over at you out of the corner of his eye, almost shyly. Some part of you can’t help but wonder why he’d ever feel shy around you anymore.

“Are you okay?” you venture.

“Yeah, yeah. Just wondering – “ The lighting is dim so it’s not like you can really tell, but for a moment it almost looks like his cheeks have reddened. “Dance with me?”

Suddenly, it feels like your cheeks should be reddening, too.

“Sure,” you say, heart in your throat.

He gets up and offers his hand to you, a nervous smile spreading across his face. You take it easily, and gratefully. He entangles his fingers with yours, sweaty against your skin, and sways your arms up and down to the beat. It’s silly-looking. It’s ridiculous, and absurd, and your heart feels like it’s about to burst out of your chest, full with the feeling of his hands in yours and the bright sunshine grin on his face.

“I don’t know how well this is working,” you say.

“Fake it ‘til you make it.”

The two of you shuffle around the room for a while. Eventually, he just wraps his arms around your middle and buries his face in your chest. His body is warm against yours. You can almost feel the rhythm of the music in his pulse, beating against your skin insistently. If you leaned your face down, just a little, you could almost kiss the top of his head.

It’s one in the morning, and you’re tired, the feeling of it aching in your joints, your bones. It’s one in the morning and you’ve never felt more awake, Bitty in your arms and sound of his breathing spinning around in your head. It’s that subliminal space you sometimes find yourself floating around in before falling asleep, that precarious edge between sleepiness and adrenaline, thoughts racing, bouncing around haphazardly in your skull.

“Bitty?”

“Mhm?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“Mm.”

“I think I’m in love with you,” you say.

He stills against you. His arms are still around your body. The music plays on.

“I – “ Your heart pounds, stickily, against your ribcage. “I don’t know if it’ll work. Because I don’t have a soulmate? But I figured – I figured it was only fair for you to know.”

He tilts his head up, and unwittingly, you let him catch your gaze with his. His eyes are wide, wide and open and startlingly clear.

“Jack,” he says. His voice trembles, but only slightly.

He carefully removes his arms from around you. Before you can protest, before you can let the shame of it, the regret at what you said, cloud your thoughts, he reaches for your arm. You’re not wearing your cuff. You don’t usually to bed, and an hour ago you thought you wouldn’t leave your room for the whole night. He turns your wrist to the light, pale blankness illuminated briefly.

He brings your wrist to his mouth, and he presses his lips against your pulse, deliberately, gently. His mouth is warm and soft, warmer and softer than you could possibly have anticipated or imagined.

_Oh._

He looks up at you again.

He doesn’t need to say a word.

You don’t, either, as it turns out. All you need to do is reach out with your other hand, cupping his jaw, your fingers curling around the shell of his ear, and lean in to kiss him.

His breath stutters against your lips. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t do anything except press forward and kiss you back. Something inside your chest stills even as it roars, blood rushing in your ears and pulse running away to your fingertips. You’ve been waiting for this, some small part of your mind that isn’t entirely preoccupied with the feeling of his mouth against yours and his hands clinging to your wrists thinks. You’ve been waiting for this since before you knew you had the right to.

He hums, vibrations tingling against your skin, and kisses you harder, and soon all the parts of your mind are blessedly silent.

The music is still playing in the background. It’s that Beyonce song Bitty loves. He once woke you up singing that song in the shower. He once infuriated you with it. It’s not such a bad song after all, you decide hazily. It’s actually kind of beautiful.

-

“Are you gonna tell your parents?”

You glance up at him, as best as you can when your head is resting in his lap. His fingers are entangled in your hair, stroking absently. He meets your gaze steadily.

“About what?” You reach for his other hand, lacing your fingers together and cradling your joined hands to your chest. “Us, or the soulmate thing?”

He shrugs. “Both? Everything?”

“Yeah. I’ll have to, eventually.” You frown. “Uh, soulmate name thing first, I think. Then work up to the boyfriend thing. If that’s okay with you.”

“Of course, honey.” He says it so casually, without even thinking, and yet all it takes is a word to send your gut tingling. You squeeze at his fingers. “It’s all about taking it at your own pace. And I know the soulmate thing is gonna be a real big conversation.”

“God. Yeah.”

“I’ll be with you every step of the way,” he says, smiling down at you. “Don’t you forget it.”

You swallow hard. “And what about us?”

His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “What about us?”

There are lots of things about you two. If you’re ready to attempt long distance so soon after you just began, for one. If you’re ready to balance this with your career. If you’re ready, for that matter, to have your career dictate what you tell the world about your love life when what you have is so fragile and new. All that's secondary, though. In this moment, there’s only one thing that really bothers you.

“Do you think we’ll make it?” You purse your lips. “Even if I don’t have a soulmate?”

He hums, pursing his lips as if to think about it. When he answers, though, you know it didn’t take him much thought at all.

“Yeah, I think we will,” he says. “You don’t need a soulmate to fall in love, no matter what the rest of the world wants to think.”

And even if you don’t, you think, this will have been worth it.

“Besides,” he says, soft smile hovering at the corner of his mouth, “you’re not the only one who doesn’t have a romantic soulmate.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“ _Oh, yeah_ ,” he says, lowering his voice in what you assume is a poor attempt at mimicking you. He laughs, then, and shrugs. “We’re both wild cards. Who knows what’ll happen? I dunno about you, but I kinda wanna find out.”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. Your noses bump together, and he laughs, air rushing out against your skin. You squeeze at his fingers again, and you grin at him, and you smile so hard it almost hurts.

This will all have been worth it.

-

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _Have you started packing yet?_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _Jack don’t rush me on this. packing my pie tins is a very delicate process_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _I can practically feel you procrastinating from across the hallway._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _:(((_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _okay fine_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _i just keep on thinking if i put it off maybe i can pretend this isn’t all ending so soon_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _It’s not. Not us._

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _We’ll fight for it, won’t we?_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _yeah you’re right :’)_

**To: Eric Bittle  
** _I love you, Bitty._

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _i love you too, Jack Zimmermann_

**From: Eric Bittle  
** _it’s the small things :)_

-

The day that you graduate, you leave your cuff off.

It’s a risk, certainly, but not as much as it could be. You’re wearing a dress shirt under your robes. Still, it’s a step. That’s what it’s always been about, for you. Learning how to play hockey against all the odds, or learning how to live with the fact that the system didn’t give you a soulmate, always came in small steps. You don’t do things all at once. What you do is take it bit by bit, and hope to god it works out for the best.

So far, it has.

You don’t feel the absence of the cuff against your skin as a loss. No, it’s something else entirely. If you didn’t know any better, you might even say it feels like a new beginning.

-

On your twenty-fifth birthday, you drive up to Massachusetts to visit Samwell before the semester starts. The Haus makes a huge show of throwing a spectacularly shitty surprise party for you, but secretly, all the balloons and streamers and sloppily but lovingly painted banners don’t strike you as shitty at all. Bitty brings you a cake, drowning in frosting and holding too many candles to blow out at once, wax dripping all over, but you try to anyway, and the whole team chirps viciously when you can’t manage it. “At least you’re better at playing hockey than blowing out candles,” Bitty says with a slanted smile, and you pull him into your side, but he’s warm against your chest, and you can’t be mad.

On your twenty-fifth birthday, you look around the faces of the men who you’ll always remember as members of _your_ team, and you squeeze Bitty’s shoulders as gently as you can, happiness warming your chest like a slow smile.

On your twenty-fifth birthday, you think, _I am deserving of love_ , and you believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of this brief-but-not-as-brief-as-I-planned experiment with the subversion of soulmate tropes. Thank you all who stuck with this until the end! I can't express how much I appreciate your support and kind words.
> 
> Here's a quick [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/strange-towns/playlist/5n9bdhufMyND8od07lAFx8) I threw together, if you're interested. Cheers.


End file.
